


Tumblr Prompts

by Anakinstopyourpanakin



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Space Families, Tumblr Prompts, see chapter summaries because each chapter is different & I don't want to spam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-10-31 08:20:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17845814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anakinstopyourpanakin/pseuds/Anakinstopyourpanakin
Summary: Pieces I wrote for swhurtcomfort.tumblr.com





	1. Lessons Learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was "Ahsoka disobeys Anakin and he gets seriously injured'
> 
> TCW era, gen, no warnings apply

**i.**

The first time Ahsoka wakes, someone is there. There is a gentle hand resting on top of hers and a soft voice conversing quietly with the medical droid. Master Obi-Wan, she realizes. He doesn’t seem to notice that she’s awake. She doesn’t know where she is, but she is too sleepy to find out.

 

**ii.**

The second time Ahsoka wakes is perhaps an hour later, but she is alone. She hears steady beeps and breathes in the clean, airy smell of the Halls of Healing. She is home, then. She vaguely remembers riding in an ambulance-speeder.

Ahsoka sits up and her right arm thumps against her chest in a sling.

It’s strange to be alone in the Halls of Healing. It’s not that she wants her master or grandmaster to coddle her like a youngling, it’s just that they would normally be here.

Med droids come and go, but it’s almost half an hour before Master Obi-Wan appears.

“No one told me you were awake,” he whispers by way of greeting. There’s something in his body language as he sits down that makes Ahsoka nervous.

“I can’t stay long,” he adds. “But I’m glad to see that you’re okay.”

“Is it…broken?” Ahsoka asks, lifting her arm.

“Do you remember Luminara talking to you before the surgery?”

Ahsoka shook her head.

“I’m not surprised. You seemed fairly out of it,” said Obi-Wan. “You broke both bones in your wrist. They put you under and set it with some durasteel pins.”

Ahsoka nods, accepting this information. “I know I shouldn’t have chased after that shuttle,” she says with a sheepish smile. She and Anakin had chased their target all the way from the Senate building only to lose him in the chaos of the airtraffic lanes. Anakin had surprised her, and told her to let him go. Ahsoka had defied him and pursued the spy, and, evidently, injured herself in the attempt.

“Is Anakin upset with me?”

“Anakin is down the corridor,” Master Obi-Wan says slowly. “In critical condition.”

 _No_.

 

**iii.**

Master Obi-Wan leaves again soon, full of cold politeness that makes it hard to judge whether he is angry or just tired and worried. They say he hasn’t left Anakin’s bedside since the accident except to check on Ahsoka while she was in post-op.

The horrible, twisting pit in Ahsoka’s stomach only deepens as she reads the report which Obi-Wan has already drafted for the Council. It says, among other details of the mission, that Anakin was crushed between two speeders as he flew over three lanes of airtraffic trying to reach Ahsoka. The report does not mention that Ahsoka was on top of a moving airshuttle, chasing the spy she had been explicitly ordered not to pursue. That Anakin had tried to stop her. That she had fallen from the shuttle, almost to her death.

The sensation of freefall feels like it never left. She is still trapped in desperate, tingling panic.  _He was trying to save me. If I had just listened—_

Ahsoka is released as soon as the anesthesia has worn off, and immediately tracks down Barriss, who has been helping Master Luminara.

“They expect him to survive,” Barriss says gently.

The fact that this is an expectation, not a certainty, sends Ahsoka reeling.

Barriss tries to explain that a collapsed lung, badly bruised kidneys, or a fractured spinal disc are all survivable in isolation but combined together with significant blood loss and shock they can be dangerous, but that’s not what Ahsoka needs to hear.

She stops to lean against the wall.  _It’s my fault, oh Force_ ,

“He’s only supposed to have one visitor at a time,” says Barriss uncomfortably when they reach Anakin’s room and see that Master Obi-Wan is still there.

“It’s alright, Barriss, let her in,” says Master Luminara. Obi-Wan does not acknowledge them as they enter.

Anakin is deep in a healing trance, immobilized with a neck brace and multiple casts. A tube protrudes from the lower left quadrant of his chest, draining air that escaped from his injured lung; his face is pale and bruised and obscured by an oxygen mask.

The healers are keeping a close eye on him, but there are inevitably moments when Obi-Wan and Ahsoka are alone in the room, and the silence becomes suffocating.

 

**iv.**

Once the silence is broken, it’s like floodgates have caved in.

“You’ve gone too far this time, Ahsoka. What were you thinking?”

“I didn’t think he would follow me, I’m sorry,”

“Of course he wasn’t going to stand back and watch you get killed.”

“I said sorry—“

“I was always afraid something like this would happen to him,” Obi-Wan snarls. “But I assumed  _he’d_  be the reckless idiot who brought it on himself.”

‘Idiot’ stings, and although one part of Ahsoka accepts the blow as though she deserves it, another part of her bubbles up in anger. “Master, you have no right—”

“Nope,” Luminara snaps as she enters the room, laying a hand on Ahsoka’s shoulder and steering her towards the door. “Absolutely unacceptable. If you are going to raise your voices, you may leave.”

“Thank you,” says Obi-Wan, sitting back down with a huff.

“You too, Obi-Wan,” Luminara shoots back. “You two can go argue somewhere else, or have some time apart, figure it out. We will take good care of Anakin.”

“He is my  _padawan_ ,” Obi-Wan hisses.

“He’s my  _patient_ ,” she counters, matching his tone.

 

**v.**

Anakin makes it through the night.

Barriss tells Ahsoka that the danger has passed, that his lung is mending and all his fractures and bruises will clear up with time. It will be a long, painful recovery. Ahsoka swallows hard.

Anakin is awake when she is allowed in. She doesn’t know what to say.

“Snips,” he gasps. He’s still on oxygen, but they’ve moved him down from the whole mask to just a nasal cannula. Although Ahsoka doesn’t see the significance, Barriss insists that’s good news.

“I’m sorry,” she says tearfully.

“What, for this?” He’s a bit spacey and not fully there, Ahsoka notices. “Forget about it. They’re giving me the good meds, I feel nothing.”

His blood oxygen level fluctuates wildly as he talks. He takes a sharp breath and it stabilizes again.

“It should have been me,” Ahsoka whispers.

“Like I would let that happen. Listen Snips, we’ve all made shitty judgement calls. This could have happened to anybody.”

“I think Master Obi-Wan hates me.”

For some reason, that makes Anakin chuckle.

 

**vi.**

Ahsoka is quite used to hearing her master curse, but the following weeks are a whole new level. Anakin’s good spirits don’t last long once the healers release him and he sets about the grueling task of getting better. Sitting up is hell on his back and neck, but then again, so is lying down and standing and pretty much just existing in general. His day is defined by when each dose of pain medication is due.

Obi-Wan is there to bring him food and help him transfer and get to the ‘fresher and back, and once Ahsoka’s wrist brace comes off she pitches in too. He finally reaches a point where he can hobble short distances, but it’s hard for him to put pressure on his spine or do anything for a prolonged time, even just standing up in the shower.

Obi-Wan isn’t home one afternoon when Ahsoka hears the water shut off in the ‘fresher, followed by a nervous call of, “Obi-Wan?”

Ahsoka follows the call to the ‘fresher door, then hesitates. “He’s not here. What is it, Master?”

“Could you come in? Don’t worry, I’m decent.”

He’s sitting leaned against the outside of the tub, wrapped in a towel.

“I’m sorry, Snips, I thought I could do it, but—” He pauses, embarrassed. “I can’t reach my arms up high enough to wash my hair. I’d wait for Obi-Wan, but I already drew the bath, and…,”

“It’s alright,” Ahsoka says quickly, trying to sound more confident that she feels. “I can help,”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles again as Ahsoka carefully has him lean his head back under the faucet and lathers the shampoo through his hair.

“Do you need help rinsing it too?”

“No, I usually just sit under the shower head. You can go now. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Master. I want to help.”

“You’re uncomfortable.”

There’s no point in denying that.

“If you need anything else…”

“I’ll holler. Yes, thank you.”

 

**vii.**

Anakin awkwardly shuffles into the kitchen where Ahsoka is doing homework, and sits himself down next to her.

“Obi-Wan says we need to talk about what happened,” he states.

Ahsoka almost says something snarky. It’s ironic that Obi-Wan wants  _them_  to talk when he’s barely said two words to Ahsoka in weeks.

“I really am sorry, Master. I wasn’t thinking about the consequences. I just wanted to catch him.”

“I did too. But Ahsoka, he wasn’t worth it. We both could have died.”

“I know.”

“Obi-Wan was harsh with you because he was scared that he could have lost both of us. He doesn’t say that kind of stuff because he thinks it sounds like an attachment, so he just comes off as angry.”

Ahsoka nods. Then she looks up to meet Anakin’s gaze carefully. “Are you angry with me too?”

“I was a little bit,” Anakin admits. “But I think the past few weeks have given you an up-close-and-personal look at what the costs of that kind of recklessness can be. I don’t think you’ll make this mistake again.”

“No!” Ahsoka assures him quickly.

“Then I’ve taught you something. See, I’m great at this.”

He clearly wants her to laugh, so she makes an attempt.

Ahsoka is used to her master couching uncomfortable topics in humor, but she sees that he is sincere.

“I’m sorry,” Ahsoka says. “For not listening to you, and I’m extra sorry that you got hurt.”

“You can stop saying that,”

“No I can’t.”

“I forgive you, Snips. Does that help?” Anakin pushes the table further away and reaches out to hug her. The range of movement in his arms is restricted, so she has to meet him halfway.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, and Anakin hugs her tighter.


	2. Anidala SickFic Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From this prompt submission: Can you have Anakin like hurt or sick and he keeps telling everyone he is fine when he is so obviously not and he tries to hide it from Padmé but she sees through him after a while?

If it had been Ventress or Dooku or someone worth fighting, maybe Anakin wouldn’t have minded admitting it, but he had taken on too many kriffing clankers at once and one had gotten at him with the sharp end of an electro-prod that his saber had just sliced in two. It was just plain embarrassing. He was Anakin Skywalker, he was better than that. He had started off the day nauseous with a headache and he had to admit he wasn’t on top of his game.

Anakin saw the shadows beneath Kix and Coric’s eyes, saw the men with lesser wounds suffering because painkillers had to be rationed for where they were needed most, and he almost felt like he was justified in slinking off, away from triage. It wasn’t that bad. Others needed the medics’ attention more.

He had almost blown it when he spoke to Ahsoka. A fresh wave of nausea had crashed over him as he was asking her to pilot the ship. She stared, and for one horrible second he thought she had noticed and was about to reprimand him. But Ahsoka’s face had split into a wide smile. “Thanks, Skyguy!”

Anakin sat in the back of the cockpit and swallowed the bile rising in his throat the whole way home, and if Ahsoka noticed his silence, she didn’t mention it. Anakin had snuck a peek at the damage while they were boarding, and he was pretty sure the gash had stopped bleeding. It couldn’t be that bad.

Anakin knew Obi-Wan would be even harder to fool than Ahsoka, not to mention the fact that his headache had quadrupled and he hadn’t been able to force any breakfast down. When they met in the hangar, Anakin made his mental shields a fortress.

“Everything alright, Ahsoka? Anakin?” Obi-Wan’s cheerful tone grew just a hair more serious as he eyed his former padawan.

“You bet, Master!” Ahsoka answered for them both. Obi-Wan’s eyes were still boring into Anakin.

“Is everything…”

“Fine!” Anakin snapped. He stammered something about the maintenance bay and turned around.

Anakin only stopped in the maintenance bay long enough to empty the contents of his stomach into a trash bin, then took off at a fast pace. He would need to leave the Temple, he decided, and find somewhere to sleep this off away from prying eyes. He would be fine after a rest, he was sure.That was how Anakin ended up on the doorstep of the senatorial building, ringing the buzzer for Padmé’s apartment sweating and shivering.

“Ani!” Padmé exclaimed before quickly adopting the same face that Obi-Wan had made.

“Sweetheart, I need somewhere to…to…” And by the Force, if Padmé’s apartment wasn’t  _spinning_.

“Ani, come inside.” Padmé took him by the wrist and led him down a short hallway to a sofa. It was a miracle he managed not to stumble.

“Sit down, are you alright?”

“Fine,” Anakin insisted.

Padmé pressed the back of her hand to his cheek. “I think you have a fever.”

“Padmé, stop,” He ducked away from her hand. “I’m just jetlagged and I was hoping I could crash here for a few hours.”

“Of course you can, love, but you really don’t look so good.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “’Just need some rest.” He pulled his legs up onto the sofa and curled up. He heaved a sigh of exhaustion.

“You poor thing,” said Padmé, smoothing his hair with an infuriating smirk. “Do those Jedi work you so hard?”

“You’re teasing when I’m too tired to tease back. That’s no fair,” Anakin whined, making Padmé smirk harder.

“Fine,” Padmé relented. “Just rest then. Let me know if I should have Threepio go pick up some cold medicine.”

He heaved a sigh of relief when Padmé left him in peace in her sitting room. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he woke up drenched in sweat two hours later.

“Padmé?” Anakin called out groggily. He pulled a throw from the sofa around his shoulders like a cloak and got to his feet.

Padmé appeared in an instant. Now fully awake, Anakin wished he had not called out so pathetically. He didn’t want Padmé to fuss over him. This was worse than the clone medics, worse than Ahsoka, worse—well, no, probably on par with Obi-Wan, the big mother gundark.

“Do you feel any better?” asked Padmé.

“Worse,” Anakin groaned, internally cursing at himself. But it was the truth.

“Let’s get you to bed, darling, you’re useless in this state.”

Padmé steered him into her room and ordered him to get out of his sweaty clothes. A few sets of Anakin’s civilian clothes lived in Padmé’s bottom drawer. This was a relatively new development, and it still put a smile on Anakin’s face whenever he thought about it. It was as if symbolically, a little part of him lived here, a part the Jedi had no knowledge of or control over.

He retrieved an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants from said drawer while Padmé turned down the elaborate bedcovers.

“Anakin Skywalker!” Padmé exclaimed as he pulled his shirt off over his head. Sith hells—he had nearly forgotten about the gash on his side.

“Padmé, don’t, it’s fine—”

Padmé drew closer to inspect his wound. “Is this why you’re sick? Because Ani, that could get  _serious_.”

“No—no, no the cold came first, that’s why I—I never would have made that mistake if I’d been thinking properly.”

Padmé’s troubled glare had relaxed somewhat. “Well, it still needs to be cleaned,” she decided. “Wait.”

Anakin sat obediently on the edge of the bed, wondering what he was in for. He so desperately wanted to go back to sleep.

Whatever Padmé had decided to clean the wound out with stung like hell. “You’re being a baby,” Padmé informed him as he continually whined.

“Well, it hurts,” Anakin protested. He had more or less drained his own ability to ignore his pain over the past few days.

“Are you sure this doesn’t need to be stitched up?”

“I’m sure,” said Anakin vehemently.

Padmé had finished and switched to applying bacta gel, which was startlingly soothing. “There. Now get your shirt on.

“Sorry for interrupting your day,” Anakin mumbled.

“That’s alright. I’ve been writing a speech. Maybe you could read it over when you’re feeling better.”

“I’d like that.” Anakin crawled into Padmé’s bed and pulled the covers tightly around him. He still felt miserable and plagued by chills.

“And I can make some soup later, if you feel like you could keep it down?”

“That isn’t your job.”

“I made it my job when I married you,” Padmé countered. “Because you’d do the same for me. You have, actually.” That had been a long weekend, when Padmé had the stomach flu. Remembering that put Anakin a little more at ease.

“I should tell Snips I’m here,” he said through a yawn.

“Where’s your datapad? I’ll grab it for you.”

Anakin’s reply was muffled by blankets, and Padmé realized he was already three-quarters asleep. She decided it could wait. This would likely be the first place Ahsoka looked if she needed him anyway.

The next time Anakin woke, Padmé was sitting beside him on top of the covers, silently typing away on her datapad. When she saw him awake, she lay a hand on his brow.

“Your fever’s coming down, darling. Did you want some of that soup?”

Anakin shook his head into the pillow. “Just stay.”

Padmé kept her hand on his head as he fell back asleep with the tiniest of smiles on his face.


	3. Always Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Companion/prequel to Meg's fic, Always Gold. All you really need to know to follow this tidbit is that Obi-Wan has lymphoma, so tw for cancer of course
> 
> Original fic is here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11906490/chapters/26900835

 

Some days, it felt like they were only surviving.

The mornings began with Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan at the table, Qui-Gon forcing himself to eat to set a good example while Obi-Wan barely picked at whatever his master had cooked. At some point Qui-Gon would invariably point with his spoon and insist,

“Eat, lad. You know you won’t want to afterwards.”

Sometimes, Obi-Wan would.

They were often silent on the hovertrain, which made Qui-Gon restless but suited Obi-Wan just fine. They rode for 23 wordless minutes before disembarking at the stop across the street from the med facility in Middle Coruscant. Occasionally just walking into the lobby and smelling the disinfectant was enough to trigger some kind of Pavlovian response in Obi-Wan; he was nauseous just imagining how nauseous he was going to feel later.

Obi-Wan was sixteen, quite old enough to ride the hovertrain alone, but Qui-Gon would never dream of letting him. Who else would discreetly wrap a hand around Obi-Wan’s wrist as the nurse hooked a tube up to the catheter implanted in his chest? Who else would read to him and help him forget the too-bright, overly sensitive feeling that the medicine spread through his body? Who else would fetch him blankets when he was cold and shaky by the end of the treatment?

At the beginning Obi-Wan had always taken the day off after a treatment, lied on the sofa and let Qui-Gon fuss over him, but they no longer made a big event of it every time. It was simply a part of Obi-Wan’s life—of both their lives. He tried to keep all the other parts of his life moving as normally as possible. And to do that, timing was everything. Once it was over, there was a certain grace period before the side effects truly set in. Obi-Wan found that the 23-minute return trip plus his 45-minute diplomacy class fit nicely into that block.

By the time Obi-Wan returned from Diplomacy, the nausea would start. The Jedi Healers had given him medicines to help him eat and keep weight on, and six days a week they worked like a charm. But nothing worked well right after a treatment.

“Five more,” Qui-Gon would remind him, holding his padawan braid out of the way. “Just five more times we have to do this.”

Qui-Gon actually sounded like he believed it. Obi-Wan wished he could too, but the last time they’d gotten down to “three more times” before the healers had found more cancer and he’d needed more surgery and 12 more weeks of drugs and he just couldn’t afford to get his hopes up again. But Qui-Gon, as usual, had hope to spare.

Once his stomach settled, Obi-Wan was usually able to sit quietly and do homework for a little while. He tried to catch up on his work during the week so that he wouldn’t have to overstretch himself during that time. But when he sat down in the evening with Qui-Gon, he knew he wouldn’t eat. This time, his master didn’t push him to, he simply wrapped the padawan in a hug.

Obi-Wan felt so snug and safe in his master’s arms that sometimes he even let the older Jedi carry him to bed before the next phase – migraines and drowsiness – set in.

Qui-Gon sat against the headboard and Obi-Wan lay in front of him, practically in his lap, resting his head on his master’s chest. Qui-Gon placed his cool hand on Obi-Wan’s brow and moved his thumb in a circular motion, using the Force to dull the pain of Obi-Wan’s migraine. Healer Ardelle had taught him the simple exercise when Obi-Wan was first diagnosed.

“Mmmf,” murmured Obi-Wan as he shifted to get more comfortable. The tiniest of smiles snuck across his face. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Of course. This is what Masters are for, after all.”

“Pillows?” snorted Obi-Wan quietly.

“Naturally. It takes years of training to become the perfect pillow. You’ll understand someday.”

At far as Obi-Wan could tell, Qui-Gon had never actually considered the possibility that Obi-Wan could make anything less than a full recovery. The healers had given him odds in the ballpark of 90%, and the doctors in Middle Coruscant were even more confident, but Obi-Wan was always the sort who needed to examine every problem from all angles, to sort it into possible outcomes and potential strategies. Qui-Gon simply trusted.

‘We can fight this,’ had become Qui-Gon’s mantra. “The Force will show us the way and give us the strength.” Even when Obi-Wan was tired and weak and not really in the mood to talk about his own body like a sparring opponent. Even when Master Che shook her head and urged Obi-Wan to focus on living, not battling. To Qui-Gon, the battle was fought and won every time Obi-Wan got back up from a setback. As long as they kept on surviving, they had won. It was always “they”, it was always “we”, he had never let Obi-Wan feel alone in this.

Obi-Wan would fall asleep in his master’s lap, and if it still hurt in the morning he would be comforted by the knowledge that the second day was always the worst, that things would get better and better until a week from now it would be time for another dose. They would keep on surviving. And that would be enough.


	4. Luminara & Barriss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the prompt: I was wondering if you could write any Barriss and Luminara hurt/comfort ficlet.

“Intubate him, Barriss, now!”

Luminara’s hands were occupied compressing the clone’s chest and all her strength was being poured into the careful application of the Force. The clone on the table was hypoxic and his cells were dying faster than she could heal them, she could only stave off the inevitability of brain damage and eventual death for so long if they couldn’t get a heartbeat on him.

“Come on, Barriss!” Luminara barked to her padawan across the table. She did not look up from her task.

Barriss’s voice was almost tearful as she burst out, “I can’t, what if—I’m sorry, I can’t do it!”

“You can, and you better!” ordered Luminara. She spared a moment’s glance over her shoulder and saw the padawan holding the equipment with her hands tremoring out of control.

“Kriff it—Draa, come here and help me!”

Draa was not a medic—unfortunately Buzz was occupied with another casualty—but like most of the clones he had been trained in CPR. Luminara let him take over then snatched the endotracheal tube and accompanying instruments from Barriss’s shaky grip, and even though Luminara’s gaze was not accusatory, Barriss couldn’t help but feel reprimanded.

In the end it did no good. Luminara and the clones did chest compressions in shifts for over two hours. The man’s heart fluttered twice, several minutes apart and never strong enough to lead to any spontaneous rhythm. From her partially-meditative state Luminara could sense the change in him, as her healing efforts dissipated and the young clone had joined the Force.

It never got any easier, Luminara thought to herself. She assured Draa and the other clones who had assisted that everyone had done their best, and done well.

It was then that Healer Unduli retired for the moment, and she was Master Luminara once more. She turned to exit the medic’s station to find Barriss.

But suddenly she saw Barriss still standing there, pale and pressed into the corner of the room. She hadn’t left after all. “Barriss,”

“I’m sorry,” the padawan whispered.

“There’s no need of that. Come help Buzz and I pass out bacta patches, or go have some time alone and calm down. It’s up to you. We’ll talk later.”

Barriss chose the latter option, and Luminara didn’t blame her. This wasn’t the first patient that Barriss had watched die, but she was still young and inexperienced enough to be shaken by it.

Once all the troops were accounted for and the casualties treated and reported, and her duties both as Healer and as General were dealt with, Luminara slowly made her way back to her own tent.

Within, Barriss was seated cross-legged on the mat. She looked as if she were meditating, but Luminara sensed only frustration and sadness swirling in her.

“It’s the hardest part of this job,” Luminara said consolingly, taking a seat beside the padawan. “I’m afraid you never really get used to it.”

Barriss was silent for a long moment.

“It was like I was frozen. I couldn’t make my brain focus or stop my hands from shaking.” Barriss felt trapped under the crushing feeling of having irreversibly messed up. There was no going back to fix it, nothing to be done.

“You were afraid, understandably. You must be mindful of your fear, so that you are able to release it into the Force next time.” It was ancient, mostly unhelpful advice, but Luminara repeated it anyway. The familiarity of old Jedi teachings could be a comfort sometimes.

“If we’d intubated him quicker, would—would he have lived?”

“Probably not,” said Luminara gently.

“I didn’t even know his name,” she said with a sniffle. There hadn’t been time. He had not been a member of the 41st, and they had been able to look up his designation but not what he called himself. It would seem insensitive to ask the other clones now. They would be observing mourning rituals tonight, but the Jedi (with the notable exception of General Skywalker, who the 501st considered one of their vode) were generally not invited to such things.

Barriss sniffed again, rubbing at her eyes, and Luminara sensed the emotions flowing freely in her Force signature begin to change. Guilt and grief were too painful, so she buried them with anger.

“No one else is going to know his name either. He’s going to end up just some…some tally mark in a report on the Chancellor’s desk tomorrow.” Barriss’s tone was caustic. “You know, in normal wars they report casualties on holonews. But no one cares because they’re just  _clones_ , right?”

“Padawan,” Luminara warned. “I’m not saying you are wrong, but you must cool your head.”

Barriss looked up at the rebuke, meeting her master’s eyes. When she spoke again her voice was softer. “I just don’t see how the Jedi can support something that leads to…leads to  _this_.” Barriss broke out in fresh tears. “He didn’t have to die. We should have saved him. I should have—”

“Alright,” Luminara interrupted. “Alright, Barriss.” She pulled the padawan in towards her chest, wrapping her in a firm hug. “We did all that we could. You are still just a padawan, and training outside the Halls of Healing much younger than padawans did in my day. You are not expected to have it together all the time.”

Barriss returned the embrace. “What do we do now?” she asked.

“We move on,” Luminara said. “But first, some rest. I told Buzz I would take care of early rounds so that he could be with his brothers, but you can sleep.”

“I’ll get up early and do the rounds, Master, if that’s okay,” Barriss volunteered. Now that she had calmed down, she wanted to feel helpful to counterbalance how useless she had been in her fear earlier.

Luminara smiled. The war was placing too many burdens on too-small shoulders, but her dear one was more resilient than she gave herself credit for. “That’s kind of you. You may come and wake me if there’s any trouble.”

“I will,” Barriss promised, giving her master one final squeeze before retreating from the hug and returning to her own sleeping mat.


	5. Trypanophobia

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan avoided talking about the torture all the way back to the Temple. Qui-Gon figured Obi-Wan would speak up when he was ready to discuss what he had experienced. His physical injuries were slight, but he’d seemed pretty shaken up by whatever that bastard had done to him.

Qui-Gon expected Obi-Wan’s visit with the healers would be short. It was just a standard post-mission checkup, and the cuts on Obi-Wan’s back had been superficial. As such, Qui-Gon was surprised and a little bit concerned to see a padawan healer beckoning to him from across the waiting room.

“Padawan Kenobi, your concern is unfounded.”

The mechanized voice of a med droid was arguing as the healer directed Qui-Gon into the room. Obi-Wan was standing behind the exam table in just his trousers and undertunic, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I know it is, I’m sorry. Please don’t fetch Qui-Gon. Just give me a second, I’ll pull myself to…gether.” His face fell when he saw his master standing in the doorway.

“What’s wrong?” Qui-Gon asked.

“The patient has a contaminated wound on the lower back. The risk of complications will be reduced 90% by an antibiotic injection,” the droid stated.

“I’m fine. Master, I’m sorry I…” said Obi-Wan. He was blushing furiously.

Qui-Gon tapped the droid’s control panel to put it in hibernate mode and rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Padawan, you’ve never had trouble with needles before.”

Obi-Wan kept his gaze on the floor, ears bright red. Not for the first time since the rescue, Qui-Gon was gripped with a gut-wrenching horror mixed with curiosity. Whatever Obi-Wan had faced, it had challenged him in a new way.

“Sit down.” Qui-Gon guided Obi-Wan back to the exam table and sat down beside him.

Obi-Wan sniffled. “I’m just being stupid.”

“No you aren’t. Tell me what’s going on, lad.”

“It’s just…they…they would give me something before they asked me questions. I don’t know what. It made everything hurt. First it felt like I was on fire, then it turned tingly and numb, and,” He shuddered. “I  _understand_ that’s over now and this isn’t going to hurt me but suddenly I just couldn’t  _breathe_.”

Obi-Wan’s heart beat wildly against his ribs. Qui-Gon could feel the turmoil coursing through his Force signature. He was only a step away from hyperventilating, and Qui-Gon was determined not to let that happen.

Qui-Gon looped an arm around Obi-Wan and pulled him in close. “Take your time. Feel the Force around you.”

“Okay,” Obi-Wan whispered. His fingers found Qui-Gon’s free hand and squeezed hard. “Okay.” Qui-Gon held him securely while he breathed slowly through his nose.

“Are you alright?”

Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “I think I’m ready now.”

“Are you sure?”

Obi-Wan nodded. When Qui-Gon stood to reactivate the medical droid, he was struck with a sudden fear. “Will you…could you maybe…?” He was too embarrassed to ask Qui-Gon to keep holding him like some crècheling afraid of a shot.

Qui-Gon silently sat back down and gave Obi-Wan’s hand another squeeze.

Obi-Wan discreetly wiped a tear from his eye. “I bet there are toddlers who cause less of a scene,” he smiled wryly.

“Age is only one of many determining factors of trauma response,” the droid informed him as it prepared Obi-Wan’s antibiotic.

“He’s right, Obi-Wan.” said Qui-Gon. He noticed Obi-Wan getting panicky again as the droid picked up the syringe.  “You don’t have to watch,” he suggested. Obi-Wan buried his face in Qui-Gon’s robe.

Obi-Wan breathed deliberately in and out through his nose, forcing himself to maintain a steady rhythm as he felt the medicine being injected into his arm. He didn’t open his eyes until he felt the cool sting of synthflesh being applied to the puncture.

“Padawan Kenobi, you are free to go,” said the droid as it bustled away.

“I am proud of you, Padawan. That was well done.”

“Sure was. Perfect Jedi form.” Obi-Wan rolled his eyes as he pulled his tabards on.

“You are not a Jedi yet,” Qui-Gon reminded him. “These things come with experience.”

“Can we please forget it ever happened?”

“Alright,” Qui-Gon conceded. The conversation wasn’t over, but he sensed Obi-Wan was feeling too humiliated to discuss it at the moment. Later, when the boy had recovered some of his pride, Qui-Gon would talk to him about fear and how this newest experience had affected him. “Let’s go home, lad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last one. Thanks to everybody who's left comments so far, they mean a lot.

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to share these somewhere. Comments are much loved!
> 
> I don't personally take prompts at swhurtcomfort anymore but you'd probably make Meg smile if you submitted some. Or you could comment them here for me, but to be real with you I probably won't have the spoons.
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


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